


so put it on me

by achilleees



Series: jack/parse tumblr prompts [7]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Pining, Rentboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7531264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It will be a cold day in hell before Kent has the fortitude to say no to that pout. “Ugh,” he says. “It’s just a dumb fantasy, man, it doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>Jack cocks his head at him. “I <i>am</i> in the business of fulfilling fantasies,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>or, eloquently summed up by a friend: "Ugh poor Kent is so in love"</p>
            </blockquote>





	so put it on me

**Author's Note:**

> for the tumblr prompt: "Hiiiii! Are you still talking Jack/Parse prompts? What say you a rentboy fic, where NHL star Kent Parson picks up a scruffy Jack off the streets like he would a stray cat and lavish him with love and affection? Just some happy feels all around. :D"
> 
> note - i wasn't even gonna include any sex at all, and then it ended up like half smut. in my defense, it's a rentboy au? man i don't even know.
> 
> always up for new jack/parse [tumblr](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/ask) prompts, though i can't promise if or when i'll fill them.

Kent pretends to be oblivious to the suspicious looks Swoops has been side-eying him with the whole ride back to his place, which has about a 50/50 shot at success. Works better on Mosh, but god, does Kent hate his country music. Even the 20 minutes back from the practice rink makes him want to beat himself unconscious against the headrest.

He sees Swoops open his mouth to speak and loudly starts whistling “Take On Me,” increasing in pitch when Swoops tries to talk over him.

“You know, it’s - Can you - God dammit, Parse,” Swoops says, and claps a hand over his mouth. “Shithead.”

“Takes one to know one,” Kent says, muffled against his palm.

“You know what I’m going to ask,” Swoops says.

“Yes, and no you can’t come over just to get out of drinking nasty-ass kale smoothies,” Kent says. “She does it for your health, man, you -”

Swoops huffs. “Come on, Parse,” he says, genuinely irritated. “When’s the last time you invited me over? When’s the last time you invited _any_ of us over, huh?”

Kent rolls his eyes.

“You have to get why we’re curious,” Swoops says, pulling into Kent’s driveway. “Captain Commitment-phobe gets a boyfriend, of course we wanna vet this guy.”

“A, not my boyfriend, B, not happening in a million years, C, not a commitment-phobe,” Kent says, going to open the door. Swoops locks the doors. Kent unlocks his again. Lock. Unlock. “You know, this stops being fun really fast.”

“Point C and point A seem pretty contradictory, given homeboy is living in your house and we both know he’s not crashing on the couch,” Swoops says. “And point B is exactly what I’m talking about, bro.”

“Point D, homeboy is not living with me,” Kent says, rolling his eyes again. “Can I go?”

“My car, my rules, my interrogation,” Swoops says.

Kent kicks his heels aimlessly in the footwell, pouting. “You know, keep this up and I’m gonna start driving myself.”

“Ha!” Swoops says - it actually sounds like that, as if he read ‘lol’ and took it literally. “Five bucks in the bullshit jar, please and thanks.”

“Fair,” Kent admits. First week in Vegas, he bought a Chevy Suburban, which he cheerfully and unabashedly avoids driving at all costs. He’s due to break 5000 miles in, like, six years.

“Point E, you’re being a dick and we’re gonna meet this guy whether you like it or not.” Swoops, to Kent’s horror, turns the car all the way off. “Now a good time?”

“Um, no?” Kent says, flailing to grab his arm when he starts to climb out of the car. “Not at all? Have a nice day?”

Swoops scowls at him. “Give me one good reason why not.” Kent relaxes when Swoops settles back into the driver’s seat. He’s nosy, but he’s not an asshole.

“I’ll give you two,” Kent says. “One, you keep pushing this and I’ll make the whole team skate suicides until they vom tomorrow and tell them it’s your idea.” He climbs out and reaches through the back window to grab his gear bag, pausing and resting his forearms on the frame once he’s got a hand on it. “And two, I’m happy, and you like seeing me happy. So you’re gonna let this go and we both know it.”

He looks expectantly at Swoops.

Swoops scowls some more. “God dammit,” he says. “You are so lucky we like you.”

“Like me?” Kent says. “Dude, you want my fucking babies. You think I’m gooorgeous, you wanna kiiiiss me.” He makes obnoxious kissing noises and waggles his eyebrows lewdly.

“Get out of my car, you hyperactive freakshow,” Swoops says.

“That’s what the doctors tell me,” Kent says cheerily. “Peace, brotha.” He raps his knuckles on the car and flips a lazy salute over his shoulder as he goes inside the house.

Which is empty, as he thought it would be, even if Swoops is all doubting Thomas about it, or whatever that phrase is. Still, he checks every room just in case, good mood dissipating gradually until he has to munch on a handful of cinnamon candies off the kitchen counter so he doesn’t grind his teeth in agitation. He finds Kit curled up on his neatly made bed, which is nice, but she’s not what he’s looking for.

He throws himself down onto the couch and huffs, arms crossed and knee jiggling. Then one last little spark of hope propels him to his feet, and he walks to the back door, sliding it open.

And there’s Jack.

And everything just… _settles_.

Jack doesn’t look up from his book. He’s sprawled out all long and lean in a reclining deck chair, warm and soft and sunlit, almost unbearably beautiful, and Kent aches all over with want.

Whatever arbitrary internal code keeps Jack from accepting a spare key doesn’t seem to prohibit him from swiping Kent’s Ray-Bans when he finds them lying around, so Kent can’t see his eyes to gauge if he’s unaware of being observed or if he just doesn’t care. The idea of the latter is weirdly pleasing.

He watches for a minute, but then he starts to feel like a creeper, so he walks over and sits by Jack’s feet on the chair.

Jack looks up with a smile, shifting his feet aside. “Hey,” he says, sitting up.

“Hey,” Kent says, and leans in. They meet halfway in the kind of deep, easy kiss Kent has never had with anyone else. “Hungry? I’m gonna make lunch.”

“In which kitchen?” Jack says dryly.

“Dammit, you’re never letting up about the kitchens, are you?” Kent says, but he can’t even pretend to stop smiling.

“Never,” Jack agrees. “By make lunch, do you mean toast with avocado and poached egg, or blueberry pancakes?”

Kent _can_ make other meals, but those are definitely the two most gourmet in his repertoire (which is sad, he admits, and is reason #2 why Jack chirps him for having multiple kitchens, in addition to it being an unnecessary and ridiculous extravagance). He pouts. “You want something else, you’re gonna have to make it.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “Fajitas alright?”

“Sounds great,” Kent says. Jack has a lot of recipes under his belt, but he never seems truly comfortable in the kitchen. Kent suspects that someone in his past spent a significant amount of time teaching him these recipes, but he’s learned from experience that it’s better not to ask.

Jack glances down at his book. “Can I finish this chapter first?”

“Sure,” Kent says, fighting the urge to beam like an idiot. He _loves_ when Jack asks for things, especially when they inconvenience Kent, however slightly. Given the chance, Kent would pay any amount of money for the privilege of inconveniencing himself for Jack’s benefit.

Jack shifts slightly, adjusting his position in the chair. It takes Kent a moment to realize he’s making it so he can turn pages with one hand, leaving his other arm free.

It takes Kent less than a moment to seize the offer, tucking himself under Jack’s arm and nuzzling against his neck, cheek pillowed on his broad shoulder. When he peeks up, he can see the corner of Jack’s smile.

He drifts off like that, not quite asleep and not quite awake, and when Jack’s voice rumbles through him it makes him jerk in surprise. Only Jack’s quick reflexes keep him from getting clocked in the jaw by the top of Kent’s head.

“Sorry, what?” Kent says.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Jack repeats, setting his book to the side and smoothing his hand up and down Kent’s back. “You’re thinking so loud it’s distracting me.”

Kent feels himself go red.

Jack prods at his side with his fingertips. “Now I’m _really_ curious,” he says.

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Kent says.

“Probably,” Jack says. “Come on, tell me.”

It will be a cold day in hell before Kent has the fortitude to say no to that pout. “Ugh,” he says. “It’s just a dumb fantasy, man, it doesn’t matter.”

Jack cocks his head at him. “I _am_ in the business of fulfilling fantasies,” he says.

“Not like this one,” Kent mumbles. The cinnamon candies are long gone and he doesn’t exactly have his mouth guard on him, so he chews his lip instead. “It’s just, like… Okay, in advance, this doesn’t change the fact I think it’s dumb you won’t just take a spare key from me. That clear?”

“Acknowledged,” Jack says. “And disregarded.”

Kent wrinkles his nose at him. “So I dunno, I just had this weird stupid, like, mental image of, like… coming home and finding you waiting for me here, and - I know it doesn’t make sense, it would work better somewhere cold, like Montreal or whatever -”

Jack flinches. Kent pauses. Don’t ask, don’t ask, his common sense tells him, but he badly wants to.

He forges on. “But I’d find you waiting here for me in the rain, or snow, or something, and I’d get to towel you dry and wrap you up in a blanket and warm up your hands and tell you what an idiot you are for not just taking a goddamn spare key, and it just seemed…” He looks up, and Jack is staring at him with an expression he can’t identify. “It’s dumb, it’s nothing, forget it,” he adds quickly. “Lunch?”

He’s such a fucking idiot. There’s a reason Jack won’t take a spare key, and the reason is Kent, getting all these dumb ideas about Jack belonging here, about what they meant to each other. Kent just hopes he hasn’t fucked things up for real.

Jack clears his throat. “You know,” he says, “usually when guys share their fantasies with me, they’re not like that.”

“I’m saying!” Kent says, because hey, he tried to tell Jack. “My -” But he goes quiet when Jack laughs, this sweet soft chuckle that, god, makes Kent’s stomach flip.

“God, Kent,” Jack says. He presses a kiss to his forehead. “What am I going to do with you?”

Sometimes Jack says this in a quiet, lost tone - late at night when they’re both wasted and Kent is lying on top of him and pinning him to the mattress, or mid-morning when Kent is scrambling not to be late to practice and stuffing handfuls of 20s at Jack to convince him to stay until he gets back.

It’s never sounded like this before, all fond and shy.

“Make me lunch?” Kent says hopefully. “Fuck me stupid in my giant awesome bed? Both?”

“Yeah, both,” Jack says, even more fond. “C’mon, up.” He taps Kent’s hip.

Kent reluctantly peels away from Jack and stands.

“Here,” Jack says, handing him his book, then his phone, wallet, and sunglasses.

Kent has to juggle the mound of stuff in his arms to keep from dropping it. “What -” he says, right before Jack walks into the pool.

Kent is still staring open-mouthed when Jack comes up spluttering, carding away the wet messy tangle of his bangs with both hands. “Shit, that’s colder than I expected,” Jack says, paddling to the side and heaving himself out, clothes plastered to his skin.

He’s still wearing his shoes, Kent observes dazedly.

“Am I getting toweled off or not?” Jack says, wringing out his t-shirt as well as he can.

Kent snaps to action, hurrying inside and dumping the contents of his arms onto the kitchen counter before heading to the bathroom to grab a few towels. In the mirror, he can see that he’s smiling giddily.

Holy shit.

Jack is a professional in the business of fulfilling fantasies, and there are so many other ways he could have fulfilled this one. He could have waited weeks, months, until Kent had either forgotten or convinced himself that Jack had - could have stumbled and lost his balance by Kent’s pool, or kept an eye on the weather forecast for a rare Vegas downpour, or…

He chose to do this for a reason. And maybe Kent’s kind of dumb and doesn’t totally get what he’s trying to say, but he understands enough.

“You’re really hot wet,” he says when he comes back outside, because - boy that pretty deserves some honest appreciation.  He stares openly at the way Jack’s t-shirt contours to the grooves of his muscles.

Jack smiles a little, that familiar awkward little quirk. At first, Kent thought it was affected, a show of false humility because there was no way he didn’t know how gorgeous he was.

But he knows better now, and he knows that, yeah, Jack has no idea how gorgeous he is.

Kent kneels by his side and peels him out of his wet clothes, enfolding him in a big fluffy towel once he’s got him naked. He uses a smaller towel to dry off Jack’s hair.

It wasn’t his intention to make this a sexual thing. That’s not the point of this, and he thinks Jack knows that. But he would defy anyone not to get turned on by the situation, by the sight of Jack’s gently parted lips and obediently lifted arms, all that thick muscle gone pliant in absolute trust.

Jack looks up at him, and Kent -

Kent would give him the whole fucking world, if he wanted. Anything he asked.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jack asks.

And... Kent can’t answer that. This is exactly what he wanted. At the same time, this isn’t even a fraction of what he wants.

He pulls Jack into a kiss instead.

Side note -

Kent has fucked a fair number of guys in his life. His slut phase came a little late, sure, but Grindr isn’t hard to navigate with a body like his, and what he lacked in extended duration he made up for in dedication.

That being said, Jack is hands-down the best sex Kent has had in his fucking life.

Kent was a little wary at first, based solely on Jack’s awkwardness, the way he hates to be singled out in a crowd, the way he kind of hunched his shoulders and tucked his head when Kent first approached him outside the bar. But his absurdly broad shoulders and Kent’s intimate knowledge of what a man could do with those kinds of core muscles kept Kent interested, and hey - one night of awkward sex with a dorky hooker wouldn’t kill him.

Little did he know. Maybe he should have, though. A smarter person definitely could have pieced together that Jack wasn’t peddling his wares through charisma alone.

Jack fucks like an all-star, is what Kent’s saying. Kent has always liked to be manhandled, pulled and lifted and adjusted into whatever position his partner desires. He likes to be _used_. And Jack knows how to use him right.

That first time, he'd been riding Jack on the hotel mattress, Jack’s expression focused, almost tight. Kent was def into it, panting slightly and clutching his fingers over Jack’s chest, and then Jack paused, lips pursed.

“Look, can I -” he had said.

“Sure?” Kent had said, uncertain but willing to go along with it.

Then Jack flipped him onto his back, slung his legs over his shoulders, and fucked him until he was crying and shaking and coming all over himself without being touched.

Yeah. Jack is a goddamn _professional_ in the business of fulfilling fantasies.

And Jack knows even better by now the way Kent likes it, hard and rough, _overwhelming_. He knows that Kent doesn't want to be asked before being tossed onto his hands and knees and fucked right there on the back deck.

Jack's hand is a comforting and restricting weight between his shoulder blades, pinning him down there even as his other hand hitches his hips up to put Kent's ass at the perfect angle to drill his prostate with agonizing accuracy. Kent’s making these hitched whining sounds as Jack fucks him, which he stopped being embarrassed about ages ago by sheer necessity. He has never felt anything approaching this good before Jack.

“God, fuck, fuck!” Kent cries out, biting his bicep to muffle himself, because the fence is high but it’s not goddamn soundproof, Christ. “Nnh, right there, s’good, ‘m gonna - you’re gonna make me -”

Sometimes Jack is quiet, all controlled, rough breathing and low groans. Sometimes he murmurs to Kent in French, deep and sibilant, a stark contrast to Kent’s high, rasping cries. Kent fucking loves that, creams all over himself at the sound of it.

But it’s even better when Jack can’t hold back, like now. When he growls to Kent about how pretty he looks, how good he’s being for Jack, how tight he feels. Kent can feel his voice rumbling through both of them - he’s had a thing for gravelly voices since George Clooney turned the bisexual dial on high for him, but Jack takes it to a whole new level.

“You’re gonna come for me like this, aren’t you, Kent?” Jack asks him, fingers so tight on his hips Kent knows they’ll leave prints there. It won’t be the first time - he didn’t intentionally volunteer the details of his sex life to the team, after all. “You’re gonna come like this, I know you can. Want to feel you come on my cock, Kent -

“I can, I - fuck, Jack, I wish - I want - why can’t we -” Kent drags in a strangled, unsteady breath, wrestling his stupid mouth back under control. “I will, Jack, ‘m gonna. Shit!” He presses his face into the hot smooth wood of the deck, needing something to ground him because he’s falling to goddamn pieces and he knows he’s going to say something he’ll regret.

“I know you will,” Jack says, and a moment later there’s a hand twining in his hair and turning his head and they’re kissing over his shoulder, wet and messy, and Kent whines, body tightening up, clutching in rhythmic waves around Jack’s cock.

“Kenny -” Jack groans against his shoulder.

Kent comes his fucking _brains_ out.

Jack fucks in another handful of times and then shudders and comes inside him. Both of them buckle gracelessly onto the deck, then Jack takes care to pull out slowly and paw Kent over onto his back before collapsing on top of him.

Jack rests his head on Kent’s chest, rising and falling in the harsh cadence of his breaths. After a minute, he looks up. “What were you going to say before?”

“Nothing, really,” Kent says, praying for Jack to let this one go. “Dumb sex stuff. Sounds stupid out of the moment.”

“Kay,” Jack says.

The terrible, lonely truth is, Kent wishes like hell he could show off Jack to his friends. Wishes Jack’s arbitrary internal code had some flexibility here as well, so Kent could trot out this beautiful, stubborn boy and impress the hell out of his friends with his looks, his grace, the sheer breadth of his hockey knowledge.

But he’s not delusional. Jack would never - Jack’s so proud, for one, and - and sure, Jack’s only boning him, but Kent’s not tricking himself into thinking it’s for any other reason than how deep his pockets go.

But here, now, like this, with Jack’s damp, chlorine-scented hair tickling his cheek, his thumb rubbing circles in Kent’s hip…

That goddamn spark of hope. Kent’s never gonna be able to extinguish it now.

“C’mon,” he says, nudging at Jack’s forehead with his nose until he looks up, then catching his lips in an lingering kiss. “Let’s go make me some fajitas.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, and rises, grabbing Kent’s hand to help him up.


End file.
